Absentis Liberi
by GiorgiaKerr
Summary: BB. The Squint Squad have a case that will take a huge toll on them all. "Everyone copes in different ways." Final chapter up!
1. Chapter 1

**Spoilers:** Hehe, I just made my dad and me mini-pizzas for lunch. SO good.

**Disclaimer:** It may seem like this is a crossover at first, but I assure you, it's not. _Definitely not._ And I think I may have just drunk my fifth coffee of the day. Oops.

**Author's note: **Seriously, I may as well just abandon 'Spoilers' and 'Disclaimer'. I just use them for extra Author's Notes. And hence my own amusement. Wow, this'll make my notes seriously epic…

Okay, so I was doing my English homework (character sketches joy) but I don't know where my English book is. Chances are my teacher has it. So I started using a pad that is attached to a folder. But the folder is like five years old, and I use it every day. So, _of course_, I had to glue it back together. So now I'm waiting for the glue to dry.

…It should take about as long as it takes me to write this…

* * *

Booth blew out an impatient breath as he flicked a pen into the air. "So. You gunna be done anytime soon?" he asked hopefully, raising his eyebrows. Rolling her eyes, Brennan turned to him with a sigh. He was looking at her like a child who wants another cookie.

"Why are you so impatient today?" she snapped.

"Why are you so grumpy today?" he countered, proud of his comeback. Brennan, however, was not.

"I'm not grumpy, Booth. You're just irritating me. You should know by now that I take my time when I work," she informed him, her fists moving to her hips as if she were preparing to get physical.

Booth held up his hands more out of hopelessness than surrender. "I know, I know. It's just… I really want to catch this guy, Bones," he admitted, his mood changing from playful and teasing to almost pathetic.

Brennan opened her mouth to chastise him, but stopped when she saw the vulnerability in his face. Instead, she closed her mouth and nodded slightly before turning back to the remains on the table.

Booth smiled a little and nodded at her back, almost proud.

Both went back to their silent tasks. Brennan glared at a very guilty looking Booth as a pen flew across the platform.

* * *

"Huh."

"'Huh'? What, 'huh'?"

"It appears…" She frowned slightly.

"What, Bones? Help me out, here…" Booth prodded, standing up straighter.

"It appears… as if…" Still frowning, she looked from the remains to Booth. "It appears that someone thrust a wooden stake through this little girl's heart," she said slowly. Booth's eyes widened.

"As in, _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_, staked?" Booth asked, dumbfounded.

"I don't know what that means," she said automatically. "But I think the answer is yes."

They stared at each other, both lost in their own thoughts as the information sunk in.

"Either this guy's delusional, or just _really_ twisted," Booth finally decided. Brennan frowned at him.

"What killer isn't twisted?"

* * *

"What makes you think there's another?" Brennan asked as the black van sped through the nearly-deserted streets.

"Anonymous tip," Booth said unhappily. Anonymous tips were rarely useful, and even if they were, it wasn't much good when your informant didn't have an identity. Half of them were crack-heads as it were.

"Do you know where it came from?" she asked absent-mindedly, flipping through the FBI report. Booth shot her a look.

"No, Bones. If we did it wouldn't be _anonymous_," he said slowly. She looked up and blinked a few times.

"Oh." There was silence for a few minutes. "Turn left," Brennan instructed without looking up from the manila folder in her lap. Booth glared at her as he turned, but didn't say anything.

"Yup. That'll be it," Booth sighed as they pulled into a makeshift parking lot cordoned off by crime scene tape. The blue-and-red lights from the cruisers weren't the subtlest of markers.

Brennan jumped out of the van before Booth had even stopped the engine. He rolled his eyes and followed her, taking out his badge in preparation. He was glad he had as he came upon Brennan and a uniformed officer.

"Ma'am, _you_ can't go past the tape," he informed her unceremoniously, blocking her path with his arm. She glared at him and grabbed his arm. Booth began to run.

"Hey! Whoa, whoa, Bones." Brennan tightened her grip on the man's arm before letting it drop. He tried not to flinch but failed. Brennan regarded the officer with distaste as Booth flashed his badge, trying not to laugh; the officer was trying to rub his arm covertly. Booth introduced himself and Brennan.

"Go ahead, Agent Booth," he said icily. This was not a good night.

Booth grinned at him, pushing lightly on Brennan's back so she didn't stay behind to deck the officer. Once they were out of earshot, the officer twitched.

"Damn Squint," he hissed.

* * *

"Hey! You Seeley Booth?" someone called from the back of an SUV about ten feet away. Booth and Brennan turned to see a woman in an FBI jacket and a large, drooling German shepherd.

Booth pulled a face as Brennan almost ran to the dog and began petting it. She faced the trainer and spoke tersely. "Where's Tudy?"

Booth groaned and earned a glare from Brennan. The trainer ignored Booth's groan. "He's gone to Montreal for the week," the trainer replied, attempting friendliness. Brennan was still annoyed at the officer, though, and she was not finished venting.

"Why? What the hell's in Montreal?" she demanded. Booth took this as his cue, and stepped deliberately between a standing Brennan and the seated trainer.

"O-kay, Bones. Time out," he said, holding up a hand. He waited for her to look a little less like she wished she had a gun. Or nun-chucks. "You know, he can sense when you're grumpy, Bones."

Brennan wanted the nun-chucks again. "He cannot 'sense' anything, Booth. He is a dog. And he is a she," she added. Booth almost laughed at the seriousness of her tone compared to the hilarity of her last statement.

"Oh, come on! It's a well known fact that dogs can sense our emotions," he said, shrugging. He regarded the dog in much the same way Brennan had the officer. "Even if they do drool a lot."

"Dogs do not sense emotions!" The dog looked at her, cocking its head and whimpering. "And I am not grumpy!" The dog's head went to the floor, but it remained regarding her pathetically. Brennan huffed. "Can we just begin?"

With that, she stormed off to gather her things. Booth turned to the trainer.

"Yes. I'm Seeley Booth," he answered finally. "And that-" he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, "- is my partner, Doctor Temperance Brennan."

The trainer smiled wryly. "Lucky you." Both couldn't decide whether to laugh or defend his partner. "I'm Gillian O'Toole." She offered her hand, and Booth shook it.

"So? We going to do this?" Booth asked, offering her a full Charm Smile. Gillian O'Toole almost blushed.

* * *

Brennan had been sitting on the ground for three hours, now. From the time the dog had barked, she had put everything but the task ahead of her into the back of her mind.

She didn't recall the sun rising. She didn't notice the dog lazing in the newfound sun, chewing a squeaking toy, or the small glances Gillian O'Toole kept sending in Booth's direction. Or the officer behind her, staring at her butt as she crouched with her trowel.

Booth, however, noticed.

"Hey, buddy, this is a crime scene, and she is a world-respected anthropologist. Have some respect, before I arrest you." Booth took a second glance at Brennan. "Or tell _her_ you were sizing her up."

Booth flashed his eyebrows as a genuine flicker of panic lit the officer's eyes. Booth smiled kindly. "Now run along."

The officer fumed, then turned on his heel and stormed away. Booth chuckled to himself as he undid a button of his shirt against the heat.

He turned to Brennan, who was now staring at the newly uncovered remains, hands free of tools. He had to admit: he knew why the officer had been staring.

For the first time since she had begun, Brennan looked up, rolling her shoulders.

"Booth, could you come here for a minute?" she asked nonchalantly, her eyes back on the bones in front of her.

"Whatcha got for me, Bones?" Booth asked enthusiastically. Brennan didn't look up.

"Can you just pull my hair back for me? I can't see too well, and I can't pull it back with these gloves on." She held up her hands momentarily before returning them to the right femur as if to prove that she was, indeed, wearing gloves.

Booth's shoulders slumped a little, disappointed that she didn't have anything to tell him yet. But he did as he was told, and maneuvered himself awkwardly around her to grab her hair as she continued to move.

"Can you just be still for a minute?" he huffed. Brennan stopped her movement just long enough for Booth to grasp the hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. Her movement stopped for a little too long as his fingers brushed her neck. Booth noticed, and decided to speak over it.

"I've held women's hair back at crime scenes before, but never because they wanted to get _closer_ to the dead guy," Booth pointed out amusedly as he pulled the band from her hair. Brennan laughed silently, oddly flattered. As he finished tying her hair and thanking God for his female cousins, he leaned forward so his chin rested on her shoulder. "One of a kind, Bones."

He pulled away, not missing Brennan's eye roll. He smirked to himself and shook his head in wonder.

* * *

After another ten minutes, Brennan stood up. All eyes turned to her, with the exception of the officer, whose eyes flicked to Booth's then to the ground at his feet.

"I can't tell you conclusively, but it looks like the same manner of death as the girl from upstate."

Booth closed his eyes and blew out a huge breath.

O'Toole pushed off from the tree she'd been leaning against for the better part of an hour. "And what's that?"

"A wooden stake was thrust through her heart," Brennan said, her mind already somewhere else. O'Toole's eyebrow shot up.

"As in, _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_, stake through the heart?" She whistled through her teeth.

"Would everyone please stop saying that? It's not helping me _or_ the investigation," Brennan scolded, annoyed at not understanding the same reference twice. O'Toole's hands went up, as the dog whined to Brennan again. Brennan, annoyed with the dog, turned to the nearest person who didn't make pop-references and hadn't nearly earned an ass-kicking.

"I'd like the remains removed and sent to the Jeffersonian A.S.A.P."

The boy she had spoken to nodded and moved off to find the rest of his team.

Brennan looked at Booth, whose expression mirrored her own.

"You think there are any more?" Booth asked finally. Brennan turned around to survey the expanse behind her. It was flat to the horizon.

* * *

Chapter story in the making?


	2. Chapter 2

**Spoilers:** Apologies for lack of updates! Busy, busy little worker bee, I am… Also, apologies for anything medical I did wrong. I kind of made it up a little. There are only so many things one can Google.

**Disclaimer:** My shower's on the fritz. Well, actually, I think it's the local water pressure, but it's annoying nonetheless. I have a feeling there are a few non-plot-helping scenes in this story, but they were either too fun or too… persuasive to ignore.

**Author's Note:** Oh my. My house is full of these little gnat things. They're driving me nuts. Ha! Imagine a house _full_ of gnats…

Actually, don't. Ew.

* * *

Brennan jumped as her phone buzzed against her thigh, making a small yelping sound. She looked up a little self-consciously. There were two grad students staring at her, bewildered.

Probably wondering what they'd missed. Or why their so called 'teacher' wasn't teaching.

She didn't react to them, instead pulling her phone out of her pocket and standing up. She moved out of hearing range of "her" students, partially out of habit, partially out of spite.

"Brennan," she huffed into the mouthpiece.

"Yo." She almost sighed to hear a familiar voice.

"Have you got anything?" she asked eagerly, wanting desperately to get away from the too-eager eyes and insatiable curiosities.

"Geez, Bones, you're sounding pretty…" He paused as her tone sunk in. "Is that officer harassing you again?" he demanded.

Brennan's brow creased. "Which officer?"

Booth was silent for a few minutes, apparently regaining his composure. "Uh, nothing. Anyway. Yeah, we think we may have something, so I'm just gonna swing by and pick you up in about twenty, okay?" It wasn't a question. Immediately, despite her dislike for the students, she became defensive.

"What? Maybe I'm busy, _here_, Booth." She didn't notice when the grad students lifted their heads and giggled a little.

"So you don't want to come?" he asked patiently, a little hurt. Brennan sighed.

"No, I want to come. Just don't assume things, Booth," she told him, now distracted by the students' lack of concentration. "I have to go." She hung up, not hearing Booth's impatient mumblings as she disconnected.

"What are you two doing?" she demanded of the students. They looked up from their conversation.

"Uh, we were waiting for you to come back, Doctor Brennan," the boy stuttered, playing the martyr. A lock of hair fell from his long ponytail, as if trying to shield his face from the severity of her stare. He wasn't sure why, but the doctor really didn't like him.

_Twenty minutes_, she told herself as she got back on the ground and picked up her brush.

* * *

Booth slowed from his jog once he had Brennan in sight. He wasn't afraid for her, he just wanted to get out of the heat as soon as possible. He realized as he ran, that running was not a good way to keep your temperature down.

Before Brennan noticed him, he took a few seconds to survey the area. There were few people scattered here and there, but either they didn't care much about what was going on, or they were just there for the sake of it.

Brennan, on the other hand, sat next to one of four shallow trenches, leaning down purposefully. She extracted a rib with perfect precision, then held it up to the hot light. She winced slightly at what she saw, a small indulgence she would never have allowed herself if she knew he was there.

It made him feel rather guilty, so he cleared his throat. Brennan's head snapped up and she tensed as she spun. She sighed in relief when she saw Booth's wide grin.

"You shouldn't do that, Booth," she scolded half-heartedly. "I thought you were one of those students," she mumbled with obvious distaste.

"Students?" Booth was confused. Brennan nodded as she set the rib down with equal precision and motioned to one of the faraway bystanders, then to the remains at her feet.

"Washington University thought it would be a good idea to send me a couple of their students to babysit. They shouldn't really be here, either. Not in a murder investigation…" she said more to herself than Booth. He scanned the area.

"Where are they?" he asked after a few seconds. He couldn't see anyone who looked remotely more interested than an atheist as mass. He allowed himself a small smile at his analogy.

"I sent them away," she replied easily, standing up with a wince. Her limbs were all but morphed permanently into her sitting position.

"You sent them away?" Booth asked incredulously as his partner stretched in the cruelest way not a metre from him.

"They weren't working effectively. I told them to go."

"Go where?" He heard a crack as she rolled her neck. She looked at him blankly.

"I don't know," she replied as if it had been absolutely absurd to assume that she did know. Booth frowned at her then shrugged.

"Okay, so. We think we've got a lead," Booth started. Brennan's face lit up. Two people started to carefully excavate the remains behind her. She watched them warily.

"You think?" she asked, not looking at Booth.

"Well, we don't know how…_ valid_ it is," he said. Brennan's eyes briefly flicked to his, then went back to the remains. _So small_.

She violently chased the thoughts from her head. "Okay, then. Let's go."

As he glanced at the tiny bones, Booth didn't need to ask what had made her mind up.

* * *

Hodgins cast a sideways glance at Angela, almost flinching at the hurt he saw in her face. Every case got to her; but children were especially bad. She stared at the remains of the second victim now laid out on the table next to the first. She pictured the two children playing together, running through the grass, holding hands.

She jolted herself out the image. She was drawing their faces. Not their lives. Not the lives that they'd lost. She swallowed hard. She could do this. She was tough. Her pencil froze again as she looked back to the table. Clenching her jaw, she took her sketchpad and left the platform.

* * *

"No, I'm not going to inform them," came Brennan's clipped voice from the lower floor of the Jeffersonian.

"Don't you think they should know? What if they go back and you're not there?" Booth asked impatiently.

"If they can't take enough initiative by now to figure out where I've gone, I don't think they're really graduation-bound." Brennan rolled her eyes at Booth's insistency. What was wrong with him? Why was he defending these kids?

Angela walked out of her office, having calmed herself down appropriately. Hodgins followed, then, spotting Brennan, moved off to get back to his microscope.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked Brennan. Brennan turned away from Booth. "And what happened to that lead?"

"Dead end," Booth answered in response to Angela's second question.

"He's just being pushy… again," Brennan responded to Angela's first question. Angela looked to Booth for an explanation, but all she got was a cynical shrug.

"She's been grumpy since yesterday," he pointed out.

"Ah," Angela muttered knowingly. She looked directly at Booth. "PMS."

Brennan's eyes widened. "Angela! Can we not discus my menstrual cycle with Booth?" she almost pleaded. Booth pulled a face.

"Yeah, can we not? Please?"

Angela rolled her eyes at the two of them. They really were a lot more pathetic when it came to begging than they knew. Honestly, she was just happy to be distracted by something that didn't revolve around death.

The partners continued to stare at her, one in slight disgust, one in slight horror. She almost laughed at their behavior; so much like embarrassed teenagers. Instead, she flipped a hand at them. "I'm getting a coffee…"

Brennan didn't bother to clean herself up before diving into her examination. Booth would have admired her determination if she hadn't looked so bad. Her face and hair were mottled with sweat and dirt, her clothes not much better.

"Why don't you have a shower first, Bones?" he offered. Brennan looked at him with mild disbelief. He had the sudden urge to run away.

"I have to do this, Booth." She motioned to the tables with a hand, not looking at them. Booth risked a glance. He flinched slightly as she turned around. His eyes dragged back to the back of her head.

"Come on, Bones." Taking a few steps forward, he reached out and removed the band he'd placed in her hair earlier. She stopped what she was doing, then turned around to look questioningly at him.

His eyes held hers for a few seconds before dropping slowly to the floor between them. It was covered with dirt. Her eyes met his again, and he raised one eyebrow as if to reinforce his point.

Brennan sighed and took the band from his hands. "Yeah. I don't want to contaminate evidence," she said as if it had been her idea all along.

* * *

Angela walked into Brennan's office, face angled towards her sketchpad. Booth looked up from Brennan's chair, phone to his ear. He held up a hand at Angela. "Yeah, thanks, that could be helpful," he told whoever it was he was talking to. Angela moved to lean against Brennan's desk.

"Bren?"

"Platform."

"Oh. Who was that?" Angela asked; part out of interest, part out of boredom. Booth frowned at the phone in his hands, obviously disturbed by the news.

"Buddy of mine form the Bureau. Needs me down there."

"Then why are you still here?" she asked, realizing that there must be a reason. And knowing Booth, a good reason.

"I thought Bones might like to come. You know, get in a nice afternoon of bad coffee and testosterone-induced humour," he joked. Angela snorted.

"Oh," she muttered, remembering the pictures in her hands. She held the sketches out gingerly. Booth took the paper with a barely contained sigh. His hands almost shook as he took in the happy expressions on the children's faces. Angela had drawn them on the same page. It looked like they were happy together.

Booth's eyes narrowed a little at the pictures, before returning to Angela and nodding slowly. Angela gave him a whisper of a smile and placed a hand on his shoulder before leaving the office.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, willing all conscious through from his mind before he went to get Brennan.

"Booth, man!"

Booth eyes opened slowly to see Hodgins standing in the doorway. Booth looked at him. If Hodgins didn't have a good reason for this, there would be blood.

"Doctor Brennan wants you," he said simply, distracted by something else in his hands. Booth motioned to the suspiciously manila-coloured thing. Hodgins shrugged. "It's not complete, but it's sort of a preliminary report of my findings of the particulates found on the two victims."

He didn't say anything else as Booth got up and walked past him, eager to know what Brennan had found. His friend could wait.

He mentally prepared himself for his usual cheery persona. Angela and Cam were already on the platform. "Bones, what's up? I nearly killed your messenger, by the way." He glared in Hodgins' general direction.

She gave him an odd look, but disregarded his joke, pointing to the victim found that morning.

"It appears that these two victims" – she stumbled to say the word – "died in the same mechanism of injury. A wooden stake was thrust through his – the second victim's – sternum, snapping ribs four and five and fracturing rib three.

"It took considerable force not only to penetrate the sternum," - she held her fist over the small skeleton and smacked it with the other palm – "but there is also a small indentation on T4 which appears to be from the same weapon. That coupled with the fact that children of this age still have comparatively flexible bones... This appears to be the same killer, Booth."

Booth let out a deep breath through his teeth and Angela winced. Brennan continued.

"There appears to be no other recent trauma or damage to any of the bones; skull is perfectly intact; the hands aren't damaged, so there was no serious struggle. But factoring in the strength the killer must have had…"

"There wouldn't have been much of a struggle," Cam finished definitively. Brennan nodded at her blankly. "Wait,_ recent_ damage?"

Brennan nodded and pointed to the victim's foot. "There was also major trauma to his right foot about two years ago. The navicular bone, intermediate and medial cuneiform bones, and metatarsal one were all fractured."

She moved aside so Cam could see. Cam turned the bone carefully in her hands. Angela looked away.

"There is also a healed fracture here," Brennan pointed to the left tibia, "though it wasn't set before it healed."

Brennan moved up the body. "There are two distinct fractures of the left radius, which must have happened about six months apart. They weren't set either." Cam frowned and leaned closer. She could see the uneven fissure lines of the healed breaks. An image she didn't much like was starting to form in her head. Booth moved closer, both out of interest and instinct.

"There is also trauma to the left shoulder joint. The joint is, worn, like it has been dislocated too many times."

Booth knew she was speaking simply for his sake, but he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to understand. "Both these are consistent with someone tugging on the victim's arm very hard. Grab my arm with your right hand, Booth." Booth did. "Now pull it." Booth tugged it softly.

Brennan reflexively pulled her arm toward her. "Now look where Booth's hand is." Cam looked from Brennan's arm to the lab table. The fractures were in the same place Booth's hand was.

Cam looked up after a few seconds. "Brittle bone? Some other kind of genetic disorder?" she asked curiously. Brennan shook her head.

"No evidence of either. Most likely, if there was a genetic disorder, the victim would have been on medication, and we haven't found any evidence of that."

"The tests have come back already?" Cam asked, wondering suddenly why no one worked this fast for her. Brennan's head shook again.

"If there was treatment, the victim would have been to see a doctor regularly; the fractures would have been set to heal properly. It's doubtful these were even bandaged for more than a few days." She shook her head at the thought, knowing exactly how much pain each injury would have caused the child in front of her.

Cam groaned quietly at the thought, frowning. "He was abused," she stated simply. Brennan nodded.

"Yes. For years."

Just as Booth was about to ask, Brennan spoke again. "But all these injuries are more than a year old," she mused. Brennan thought for a second before spinning towards the body of the first victim.

"The first victim found also has similar injuries. Unhealed fractures, worn joints. There's also small nicks in to the distal phalanges of fingers two, three and four, and the middle phalanx of the fifth finger of her right hand," Brennan stated with scientific certainty. Booth looked a question at her.

It seemed there would be a few more demonstrations before the day was out. Brennan picked up a ruler form the table next to her. "If I were to do this…" She swiped the pencil about a foot in front of his eyes. His hands caught hers. She rolled her eyes. "I'm three times you size and you're five-years-old, Booth," she told him impatiently.

"Oh." He nodded for her to do it again. She did. This time his hands came up, palm forward, to protect his face. "Ow." She nodded.

Cam chimed in. "And cut to the_ bone_ of her fingers… geez, she probably would have lost all function in her fingers from nerve damage. Possibly her hand, too. They would have been completely severed," she said, sounding distantly horrified. "That's a lot for a kid."

Subconsciously, Cam's arms wrapped around her body; Booth wrung his hands.

"Any possibility they were siblings?" Cam asked. Brennan shook her head as if she had anticipated the question.

"I can't be sure until the DNA tests come back, but there are no similarities in their facial structure." She shrugged, and Booth suddenly remembered the sketchpad on the desk behind him.

"Oh, Bones. Angela gave me these." Brennan flipped open the sketchpad and nodded, re-examining the skulls at the same time. Cam sighed. She didn't really want to be here. With nothing to do, it was just depressing.

"I'll go check on those DNA results," she offered. Brennan hardly registered that she was being spoken to and grunted something that sounded like agreement.

Brennan nodded after a few minutes, deciding that Angela's sketches were correct. "Ange did a fantastic job with these two," she concluded. "Right down to the missing teeth…" There was silence for a few seconds.

"You ready to go?" Booth asked suddenly. Brennan turned to him, frowning.

"Go where? I thought that lead was a dead end."

Booth's eyebrows twitched knowingly. "We got a new one." He paused for effect. "They've got a suspect in custody."

* * *

I think I might start another chapter tonight. It seems more interesting than listening to my brother explain the function of Count Dooku and the legacy of Sith Lords to my dad.

Review?


	3. Chapter 3

**Spoilers:** Whatever. It's been raining here for like three days straight.

**Disclaimer:** Tired. Want. Sleep.

**Author's Note:** I just made soup, and now it's like 10 PM, so I'm not hungry. But I can't go to bed because I have to babysit my soup for another hour.

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Brennan asked, her voice without anger. Her eyes didn't stray from the small manila folder in her lap. Booth shrugged.

"Figured I'd give you some time to, you know, do your thing." He shrugged again, this time with a small smile. "Simmer down a little."

This time she did look up. "Booth-"

"Hey, I'm not the one who left my grad students without their guide," he countered, briefly holding his hands up in defense. She rolled her eyes.

"They are not _my_ students," she said bitterly. "And 'guide'? You make me sound like a sensei."

Booth chuckled. "Well, for all the sense you make, you may as well be." He shrugged again, playfully this time. The corners of her mouth twitched involuntarily.

"Don't make fun of me," she frowned. He almost laughed at her pathetic expression. "It may well come back and bite you."

Booth grinned widely. Brennan's eyes moved back, amused, to the folder in her lap.

* * *

"Which room?"

The agent at the desk looked up, startled, spilling his coffee in the process. He cursed under his breath. "Thanks, Booth. Helpful. You've made my day," he muttered. Brennan hid a smile at his displeasure.

Booth raised his eyebrows at the man. "Well, I'm glad you're content. I do what I can," he said smugly. Brennan blew out a breath in exasperation. Booth frowned at her.

"We'd like to know where you've put the suspect," Brennan informed the agent who was still muttering, looking around frantically for something absorbent.

"Huh?" He looked up suddenly, regarding Brennan with wide eyes. It was as if he'd never seen her before. "Oh. Room six," he said distractedly.

Booth laughed as they reached the corridor. "I think it's probably a good thing I spilled that coffee," he said quietly. "I think he's already had a few too many…"

"I'm coming in."

"What?"

Brennan looked up at Booth seriously. She wasn't talking about coffee any more. Booth frowned, considering.

"I don't know, Bones. It may be better if-"

"I'm coming in," she said a little more forcefully. He took a deep breath, his hand on the door handle.

"Okay. But, Bones?" She looked at him questioningly. "I do the talking."

With a resigned sigh, she nodded. It wasn't as if he actually expected her to stay silent.

She followed Booth into the small room, making hardly a sound. Booth sat down confidently, a little assertively, and stared at the suspect.

He was a gangly kid, who couldn't have been older than eighteen. Booth almost laughed as he looked him over. He was clad entirely in black, right down to fingernails and eyelashes. He looked suspiciously like a girl, and didn't seem to mind in the least. He wore a black coat buttoned over his just-too-skinny torso, which flared at the hips, falling to the floor as he sat.

He regarded Booth with bored eyes. Booth grinned, flipping open the folder in his hand.

"So, Gus-"

"It's Aswan," the boy interrupted bitterly. Brennan frowned. Booth's eyebrow flicked.

"What is?"

"My name. My name is Aswan," he said. Brennan snorted, trying to contain laughter. Booth glared at her. Her mouth twitched.

"It's just… Sorry, but, um, 'Aswan' is a, uh, it's a dam in Egypt," Brennan said, her voice cracking in amusement on the last word. Booth made a mental note to ask her how she knew such things later. Gus just glared at her furiously, as if not used to being made fun of.

Seeing the looks she was getting from the two, she closed her mouth and forced the smile off her face. She turned to Booth. "I'm sorry, Booth," she said very deliberately. "I won't interrupt again."

Booth shot her a 'you better not' look. Still, he was inwardly curious, not to mention amused. A dam. _How threatening_, he thought sarcastically.

"So, Gus, you know why you're here," Booth started, using his given name as more of an insult than an acknowledgement. The boy glared. Booth was beginning to think it was his only expression. "Two kids are dead, Gus. And you knew where they were."

Gus shrugged apathetically. "I did."

Booth leaned back casually. "Did you kill them?" Brennan was impressed; it usually took him a few more questions to get to the point. Gus smirked.

"Maybe." A perfectly fashioned eyebrow rose subtly. Booth leaned forward, getting annoyed. This kid was reminding him of the boy with the diamond tooth. Only, as far as they knew, there was no eating involved.

"Maybe? What, you don't remember, Gus?" Booth scoffed. "Let me remind you." Booth pulled the photos out of the manila folder. He almost wished they were more gruesome. He wanted this kid to suffer for what he'd done.

"Sorry," Gus replied sarcastically. "I can't read bones." He sneered. Booth's jaw clenched just enough for Brennan to notice.

"Well," he said, remaining quiet, almost polite, "Doctor Brennan, here, can." He sounded almost boastful. Brennan mentally corrected him, but let it go. The boy looked at her for the first time, appraising her with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Then why am I here?" he asked finally, turning back to Booth.

"Because, Gus. Two kids are dead, and we think you killed them," Booth said, his voice just starting to strain. "_Did_ you kill them, Gus?" Brennan silently noticed Booth's overuse of Gus's name. It seemed a rather pathetic way of 'breaking' a witness.

"How else would I have known where they were?" Gus asked rhetorically. Booth's hand twitched ever so slightly. Brennan continued to simply observe.

"What is it, Gus? You like blood? Is that it? Creature of the night?" he mocked heatedly. Gus smirked again.

"Actually, Booth," Brennan interrupted, "this is just another way of defying and challenging social norms. It's no different to sneaking out at night, getting drunk and coming home late." She shrugged. Booth just gave her an elongated blink. Gus twitched.

"You're wrong. It's not the same," he said, trying to hide his anger. Brennan regarded him as he challenged her.

"Yes," she said bluntly, "it is." The boy's flawless exterior faltered enough for Booth to catch an incredulous shock on his face. He wasn't used to being told he was 'normal', let alone by a very self-assured stranger. His composure was replaced within a second.

"It's not. This is who I am," he informed them. Booth had to give him credit; he was good at whatever it was he was doing. "This is who I truly am. This is my _soul's identity_." He enunciated the last two words stubbornly. Brennan huffed, annoyed.

"No. This is hormones in overdrive and chemical reactions in your developing brain," she stated simply. She wasn't angry, just exasperated. The boy's eyes widened slightly and he frowned. Again, within a second, he had regained control. He glared at Brennan.

"This _is_ me. You don't understand." He folded his arms over his skinny chest. "No one understands." He spat the last sentence. Booth rolled his eyes, but interjected before Brennan could say anything more.

"Yeah, your life sucks, Gus," Booth began unsympathetically. "But, you know what? At least two little kids are dead. And I think you're responsible." He raised his eyebrows in question, daring the kid to challenge him. By now, Booth's face was less than two feet away from the boy's.

"Think what you like," the boy whispered. Booth's jaw clenched, his nostrils flared. Brennan prepared herself to intervene. Booth took a deep breath and whispered harshly at the boy.

"Don't mess around with me, Gus," Booth hissed. "Because you know what? We've got sufficient evidence to put you away for life." Brennan frowned a little at the lie. Gus lifted his chin slightly.

"Not if I kill myself first." Brennan was sure she could see pride on the boy's face. She fleetingly wondered what in his past had taken his confidence. She realized suddenly that she believed him; he would do it. She frowned. Booth remained oblivious to her.

"You know what happens to people like you, Gus?" Booth spat.

"Aswan," Brennan corrected automatically. Both glared at her, and the boy's shocked expression was more apparent this time. Both didn't say anything to Brennan, turning back to 'Aswan'.

"They go to hell, Gus."

"My life _is_ hell," he replied sincerely. Just before Booth could say anything, he was interrupted by his phone's insistent buzz. He took one last long stare at the boy before pushing himself off the table and out into the corridor. Brennan rolled her eyes and got up to follow Booth.

Pausing at the door, she turned around to look at the boy. "It's really just self-centered to say that," she reprimanded. The boy twitched at her, and she couldn't tell if it was an expression or an involuntary reaction. She felt Booth tap her shoulder.

"And you," she said, closing the door, "should not tell suspects that they will go to hell. It's totally unethical, not to mention based entirely on superstition."

Booth closed his eyes and reminded himself to get rid of those grad students. Maybe Brennan would stop being so irritating with them gone. Instead of defending himself, Booth changed the subject.

"Bones, this kid _lives_ off superstition. Speaking of which, that was Agent Rice. He was checking out the kid's place. Says he's got something for us to see." Brennan nodded, but was obviously still stuck on the previous issue.

"Could you just play along in interviews, please?" Booth asked a little less forcefully than intended. Brennan's hands went to her hips. _Oops_, Booth thought.

"But you're lying to him!" she said, eyes wide. Booth rolled his eyes and made a noise of annoyance.

"We've had this discussion before, Bones." Looking at her face, he heaved a sigh. She wasn't being simply stubborn this time. After a few seconds of silence, Booth grabbed his jacket. Brennan sighed.

"Fine. But I don't think he believes in hell."

* * *

As soon as they'd passed the 'Crime Scene' tape, Brennan had started again.

"You know, this is probably the third time we've investigated someone based purely on a social stereotype," Brennan stated. Booth wasn't sure now if she was actually trying to annoy him or not. He ignored the feeling and put it down to his tiredness and her grad students.

"Yeah, but Bones," he objected as they passed into the small house. "Creepy, much?"

Brennan looked around as Booth was doing and noticed the same thing. There was hardly any light in the whole place, making the dark furnishings in the room look even darker. Booth had to force himself not to shudder. It wasn't a very welcoming environment. Brennan opened her mouth to disagree, but all she managed was a breathy 'Whoa'.

Booth spun to face in the same direction she was. Two fluorescent yellow markers lit the mouth of what appeared to be a staircase. Booth stared into the pitch black space. He was surprised no one had lit it up yet.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Whoa."

* * *

The room glowed sporadically under the beam of Booth's flashlight, only revealing itself in increments as Booth stood at the bottom of the staircase. Brennan didn't seem to be too put off by the dark, however and began to wander.

"Bones!" he hissed.

"What?" she asked. He flinched at the sound of her loud voice in the small room. It seemed wrong to speak aloud; dangerous.

"Just… be careful. It's dark down there," he said. Brennan rolled her eyes, though it was too dark for Booth to see.

"Yes, Booth, it's dark," she said slowly. Suddenly, she was out of his sight, and the flashlight moved around rapidly, trying to locate her.

"Bones!" he complained when the light hit her. He was surprised at himself; this should be scaring him. He idly wondered if he'd be like this with anyone, or just with his Bones. He heard her catch her breath and panic began to set in again.

No, it was just her.

"What, Bones?" he asked. Brennan seemed to have picked up on his worrying.

"Are you afraid of the dark, Booth?" she asked absentmindedly.

"No, and what are you looking at?" he asked impatiently. Brennan walked up to him as he approached and took his flashlight. He was about to complain when he saw what she pointed it at.

Against the far wall of the stuffy room was a sort of altar. It was decorated with purple velvet, floor to ceiling, covered with ancient-looking books and half-melted candles. The flashlight bounced off three or four metallic objects; a chalice of some sort, a silver pentagram and an elegantly-shaped scalpel. The beam travelled up the wall until it hit a picture.

It was a print of an old portrait. Booth took a step forward. "Who's that?" he asked quietly.

"Hungarian Countess Elizabeth Bathory, I think. She was considered one of the first vampires, at least in European belief." She studied it a little closer. "She believed that if she drank and bathed in the blood of young women, mostly virgins, she would stay young forever."

Her eyes never left the painting, almost in awe, while Booth's focused on Brennan alone. He hadn't really been expecting an answer. The only coherent thought that came to his mind just then was 'ew'.

"But that's debatable. In all probability, she was just particularly cruel to her servants," Brennan said, shrugging, used to such stories. Booth was still uncomfortable.

"So this kid worships vampires?" Booth asked rhetorically. "Great. Stable." Brennan shot him a look he didn't see in the darkness. He could, however, almost _feel_ her roll her eyes at what she would call his 'ignorance'.

"I think we need Hodgins to see this, Booth." She saw his expression. "To analyze it. I don't think we need his theories on _this_ one…"

Booth laughed once, before placing a hand on Brennan's back, taking the flashlight with the other. He slid it from her shoulder blades to the small of her back as they walked the length of the room. It wouldn't do to accidentally place his hand too low in the dark. Brennan almost smiled as she felt the heat from his hand through her this shirt. Almost.

She couldn't bring herself to because she knew it was a gesture of comfort by Booth, conscious or not. Not only comfort for her, but for Booth as well. He wanted to know where she was in the dark, which would probably flatter most women most of the time. But to Brennan, at that moment, it was verging on bothersome.

As the thought hit her, Booth's hand was gone from her back, followed by a thud. The light went out. Brennan turned around to see Booth's silhouette pulling itself off the floor. She laughed quietly and Booth glared uselessly in the dark.

"Don't laugh, I hurt myself," he complained. Brennan laughed a little quieter.

"Poor baby," she said sarcastically. "Where's the flashlight gone?" Both their heads' swiveled futilely. Brennan took a step forward, knocking the object in question with her toe. She picked it up, and flicked the switch a few times to no effect. She smacked it against her palm.

Booth hissed in pain.

"You want me to kiss it better?" she asked him mockingly, smacking the torch again. It lit up, and she pointed the beam at the now standing Booth. She cleared her throat. Booth's hand was at his lip, a small amount of blood oozed from a cut. "I… um… didn't really mean that," Brennan told him. Booth nodded.

"Yeah. If you had have known it was… yeah… So we'll get Hodgins down here?" he asked bluntly. Brennan nodded, then shook her head.

"Anything construed as evidence will have to be taken back to the Jeffersonian," she concluded.

* * *

Hodgins almost jumped with excitement when he saw the things he was being brought. Angela rolled her eyes. "You know, baby, that's not normal," she said to him. He looked at her with a grin.

"Is anything I do?" he asked suggestively. She smirked back, moving closer. He pulled her against him. Angela grinned, wishing seriously that they weren't in the middle of something a fair bit more important. At that moment, though, she had to force herself to remember.

"Jack, Cam is rolling her eyes at us," Angela pointed out. Hodgins cast a glance over Angela's shoulder. She was right, as usual. Not that he cared. He was prompt to tell Angela of this revelation.

"Yes, but you have a gothic altar behind you," she enlightened him. He peeked over his shoulder before giving Angela a quick kiss. He was off the platform in a matter of seconds.

* * *

"What is it about vampires, Gus?" Booth asked, honestly wanting to know. Gus shrugged minutely.

"I don't know what you mean, Seeley," he replied politely. Booth grinned fiercely. He was terribly glad that Brennan had gone back to the lab.

"Don't play with me, Gus. We saw your little shrine. How's that working out for you? Countess Eliza helping you out at all?" he asked casually. Gus gave what Booth thought was an eye roll.

"Elizabeth. And I don't pray to her, I follow her; do her bidding," the boy said in the most threatening voice he could muster whilst remaining expressionless.

"Your bidding include killing little kids, Gus?"

"Maybe. I wouldn't be much of a loyal follower if I told you, though, would I?" The boy was getting more and more infuriating as the interview went on. It was as if he was _trying_ to push Booth over the edge.

Just as Booth was about to inform him of his pain-in-the-ass status, Agent Rice poked his head around the door. "Booth. A minute?"

Ten minutes later, Booth walked back into the interview room, frowning at Gus.

"Why didn't you tell us your real name, Gus?" Booth asked. Gus looked mildly amused.

"'Us'?" he asked in response. "I only see you, Agent Booth." Booth ignored him.

"Your file, here-" Booth held up his left hand with the original file in it "-says that your name is Gus Roberts." The boy said nothing. "But this file _here_-" he held up his right hand with a new file in it "-says that your real name is Gus Doyle…"

Gus visibly flinched at the name. Booth was quick to notice. "So, Mr. Doyle, why'd you change your name?" Gus twitched this time, as if the name had threatened him.

"I didn't like my old one. Not enough money to do it legally, so I just started signing things as Roberts." The boy seemed nonplussed by his explanation. Booth sat back in his chair.

"Something to do with your years in foster care?" Booth asked intently. Gus's leg started jiggling under the table.

'You know, I can understand how people can be screwed up by that, Gus. But killing children…" he paused, shaking his head. "That's got to be something inherited." Booth cringed inwardly. There was still reasonable doubt, and dredging up this kid's abusive past was brutal. The boy's face showed a barely masked pain.

"Don't talk about me. I _know_ what happened to me, okay?" Gus's voice was starting to strain. Booth took it as a good sign.

"Yeah, me too. Broken arms, multiple abrasions, contusions… You were hospitalized twice in one year-"

"Shut _up_!" Gus screamed, slamming his fist on the table.

Booth did. It was now up to chance. _Then_ he could find somewhere to have a painfully strong drink.

Gus's fist still lay on the table between them; clenched so hard Booth could almost see bone. His face was hidden.

"Are you violent like your dad, Gus? Is that why?" Booth prodded. Gus looked up, seething.

"I am nothing like my father," Gus spat back, enunciating perfectly.

"So you didn't kill them," Booth offered somewhere in between a question and a statement. The boy looked at Booth, panting, black tears on his cheeks.

"No."

* * *

Reviews are loved.


	4. Chapter 4

**Spoilers:** My dad is singing along to Paul Anka… This is a little scary.

**Disclaimer:** Hehe, my brother just attacked me with a pillow, then tripped over the dog. Haha. That's classic.

**Author's Note:** Ha. Baseball. I know nothing about baseball. Or criminal psychology, for that matter. It's not my fault Australians don't play baseball... I'm trying to do my French homework, but I keep writing random words in the middle of sentences in English. This is not helping…

Enjoy!

* * *

Angela followed Brennan as she walked quickly through the lab, almost having to skip to keep up. It was amazing that someone shorter than her could out-walk her so easily.

"Bren, will you please listen to me?" she asked. Brennan stopped and turned. She asked the question silently. Angela grinned in victory. "Thank you. Now. I know you and Booth have a suspect in custody, but this kid didn't do anything, Sweetie."

Brennan was taken aback. She wasn't expecting this, even from Angela. "Angela! How do you know? You've not met the boy. Even Booth thought he was creepy, and Booth can be a very good judge of character," she admitted.

Angela sighed. "That may be. But on the off chance that he's wrong… Besides, creepy doesn't make him a child killer," she pointed out.

"What's your point, Ange? I have remains to get back to…" Brennan knew her friend meant well, but sometimes she just couldn't grasp what Angela seemed to see so easily.

"My point _is_ that this boy, creepy or not, did not kill those kids." Brennan opened her mouth to protest, but Angela held up a silencing hand. "Besides the fact that he would only have been sixteen at the time the oldest murder we have was committed, the psychology of it is all wrong."

"Psychology does not determine truth, Ange" Brennan groaned. Angela silenced her with a look this time.

"I know you hate psychology, and think it doesn't help solve murders, but hear me out." Brennan remained silent, and Angela cheered inwardly. "First thing. Are you _sure_ this is the same killer?"

Brennan looked shocked. "Wha – yes, Ange!" Angela held up her hands, not expecting such a reaction.

"Okay, then, second thing: How far apart are these murders?"

"One was two years ago, the other roughly six months later," Brennan stated easily.

"And why do serial killers normally operate? I mean, besides revenge killings, what prompts them?" she asked eagerly, glad that Brennan was at least a little willing. Brennan began to protest before deciding that it would probably be a faster conversation if she just agreed.

"Well, mostly, sex," she said definitively, crossing her arms over her chest, wondering where Angela was going to take this. Angela nodded, proud.

"And have you found any signs of sexual assault? Torn clothing, missing clothing; anything at _all_ consistent with sexual assault?" Angela asked, though she already knew the answer.

"No," Brennan responded a little uncertainly. She was confused. "But it's hard to find evidence of that here, without any flesh. We can't determine that definitively."

"So 'no', then. Now, I'm excluding revenge killings and sexual killings from the list. What else might prompt someone?"

"Anger? Jealousy? Greed? Angela, we've both seen this kind of thing more than once," Brennan said quietly. Angela shook her head.

"I don't think we have. Serial killers don't operate on those. Those are emotions, not actions. Serial killers operate by pattern; it's what defines them. Those emotions don't equate to the same outcome every single time," she finished slowly. Brennan was still confused.

"How does this excuse Gus Roberts?" Brennan asked.

"Because there's no evidence of Gus Roberts being interested in children, not to mention that sexual attraction is almost always limited to one gender, especially in pedophiles. But Gus hasn't left his own company in god knows how long. The FBI guys tore the house apart, and found nothing." Brennan raised her eyebrows. When had Angela become so learned in psychology?

"Nothing?"

"Nothing but some lame books and a framed print," Angela said, shrugging. "Which, incidentally, brings me to my next point." Brennan sighed again, louder.

"Angela, I really have work to do," she said. Angela's look glued her to the spot. "Okay. What is it?"

"This kid reveres vampires," Angela said simply.

"Yes," Brennan replied as matter-of-factly.

"Then why would he kill two little kids with a wooden stake?" she asked. Brennan opened her mouth, but couldn't think of a logical, reasonable answer. Angela continued. She needed Brennan to understand. "For one: Why kids? And secondly: It doesn't seem very logical to kill the very thing you wan to become…"

Brennan looked skeptical suddenly. "You think these kids were vampires?" he asked incredulously. Angela's eyes rolled dramatically. Trust Brennan to take it literally, she thought.

"No, Sweetie. But whoever killed these kids did."

And with that, she walked away.

* * *

Booth looked at the boy closely. He was silent for a few minutes before realizing with a shock that he believed him. The boy was telling the truth.

"So who did?" he asked quietly, sitting back in his chair. The boy sighed and shrugged, not trusting his voice. Booth cocked his head in anticipation. Gus's fist moved off the table to wipe across his face, smearing black across his cheek.

"I don't know," he answered, his voice wavering. Booth squinted at him.

"Then how did you know where the bodies were?" he challenged. The boy seemed to toy with the idea of telling the truth. He seemed finally to decide he had nothing to lose.

"I found a map," he admitted abstractly. Booth raised his eyebrows. He couldn't help but pity the boy. He'd put him through the ringer, all right. But the transformation from stubborn, scornful rebel to scared, vulnerable kid was remarkable.

"Where? When? Please, Gus, I need details," Booth said quietly. He wasn't talking to a suspect anymore as far as he was concerned.

"About three months ago. At my last group home. In the trash," he said, his sentences staccato. Booth nodded.

"Do you know who put them there?"

Gus shook his head and wiped his cheek again, sniffing. Booth had the sudden urge to hug the boy. Ignoring it easily, he continued. "Where are they now?"

"At home," he said simply. "Can I go home?" he asked, suddenly reminded. Booth looked at the boy for a few seconds before shaking his head.

"We're gonna have to keep you for a while longer." Booth smiled weakly. Closing his eyes, Gus nodded. He didn't open them as Booth left the room.

* * *

"I can't find them," Angela said suddenly. Hodgins, Cam and Brennan looked up. Cam raised an eyebrow. "The kids," Angela tried to clarify. "I can't find them. Anywhere."

Hodgins stood up and walked over to her. He looked at her affectionately. "You're not making any sense, Angie," he prompted quietly. Angela looked up, frustrated.

"There are no missing person's reports on either of them. I'm searching the FBI database as we speak, but…"

Brennan put down the tiny skull she was studying and took a few steps towards Angela. "Ange, from the abuse these kids suffered, that's to be expected," she said, trying to comfort her friend. Hodgins' hand went to Angela's shoulder and she gripped it with her own. Angela looked at her friends and nodded. She didn't want to drag them down, too.

"Yeah, you're right. It's just… they're kids, you know?" Three head nodded. Angela sighed and turned back to the computer screen and watched the faces flick by.

"Doctor B.?" Hodgins called about ten minutes later. Brennan saw the apprehensive smile on his face and walked over. He didn't wait for her question. "I think I've found the murder weapon." Brennan's frown disappeared, and Cam and Angela tuned in.

Hearing a sudden beep, the four turned around. Booth bounded up the stairs and onto the platform, throwing them a quick smile. Brennan spoke simply. "Hodgins has found the murder weapon."

Booth nodded. Hodgins held up a folder. "I found some particulates on the clothing of both children. Clay, silt _and_ sand." He hopped from one chair to another and tapped one of the keyboards a few times. A magnified image of the compound flared on the screen.

"From the samples I have, it's made up of seventy-two percent sand, thirteen percent clay and fourteen percent silt," he stated in one breath. He looked wide-eyed at the rest of the group, waiting. Brennan frowned.

"What about the other one percent?" she asked. Hodgins grinned.

"Red brick and decomposed granite," he answered almost proudly. Only Booth seemed to be forming an explanation in his head. The other three stared at Hodgins blankly.

"What does that mean?" Brennan asked. Booth frowned a little more.

"It's the dirt from an infield," he stated. The three confused faces looked to Booth, who looked to Hodgins for confirmation. He nodded.

"Yep. The red brick and granite are probably there from before the field was re-done, as per the small percentages. Granite and red brick aren't the best quality products to use on a baseball field."

Booth nodded. "Red brick is really bad for footing, too loose," he said. He sounded slightly bemused, as if he was confused _because_ he understood Hodgins. "Granite is more likely to be used on park and rec. fields." He sounded a little more confident now. Hodgins smiled.

"And that's consistent with what I've pinned as the murder weapon." He turned to Brennan. "The weapon was roughly one inch in diameter at its widest, though it had a base about two inches in diameter."

Brennan looked suddenly animated. "You mean like a fencing sword shield?

Hodgins considered it then nodded. "Sort of, yeah." Brennan nodded.

"Foil, epee or sabre?" she asked.

"Foil," Hodgins answered easily. Booth's eyebrow rose of its own accord.

"Foil? As in aluminum?" he asked, feeling sufficiently stupid again. Brennan and Hodgins looked at him as if to prove his feeling.

"Fencing swords are all different. Foils have more of a _flat_ hand guard than the other two," Brennan explained. Brennan ignored Booth as he muttered something about French sports.

"I also found splinters of _Fraxinus Americana_," Hodgins continued. Brennan's brow furrowed in thought.

This time, Hodgins spoke directly to Booth. "Northern White Ash," he said with a knowing smile, "with small traces of Olympic brand varnish and Min-Wax paste." He looked up again, at the others, seeming to have finished.

"A baseball bat?" Booth asked incredulously. Hodgins smiled and nodded, happy that someone understood him, though slightly worried that it was Booth. "Well, I think that exonerates Gus once and for all. I don't think that kid ever played a game in his life."

Angela perked up, while Brennan questioned Booth. "'Once and for all'? What don't I know?" she asked, verging on annoyed.

"The kid's name is actually Gus Doyle, not Gus Robertson. He was in the foster system for eight years; abusive father," he explained solemnly. "He finally gave in, told me he didn't do it," Booth said with a small pang of guilt.

"How did you manage that? He wouldn't say a word either way before." Brennan sounded slightly hurt, as if she was sad that she missed it. Or that the boy had not opened up in front of her.

"I used my charm," he lied fluidly, grinning. "He said he found a map with the positions of the bodies in the trash at his last group home about six months ago. Said it was at his house. That means you guys should have it."

"Yep, it's right here," Hodgins said, pulling a bag off the evidence table behind him. "Booth, there are at least five spots marked on that map."

* * *

Brennan jogged up the stairs to her office, intent on checking every place marked on that map. Nine in total. Nine. She shuddered involuntarily just as Booth caught up with her. He stayed in the doorway of her office while she gathered her things, waiting patiently.

"Bones."

She continued to gather her things. "We need to get an excavation team to each of those spots. Can you call someone at the FBI to do it?"

"No, Bones."

"What?" She wasn't angry, just utterly confused. Why was he refusing? "Why?"

"Because, Bones. One: We've both been working for two days straight. Two: No one will send out that many excavation teams, especially this late at night. Three: I think we both need a break." Brennan looked as if she wanted to argue. "One night, Bones. Come have a drink with me?" he offered, knowing she was unlikely to refuse.

"I don't know if drinking is a good idea, Booth," she stated, a small smile now on her face. Booth was relieved to see it.

"Well, an un-caffeinated, non-alcoholic nightcap it is, then," he said definitively.

* * *

Booth's eyes pulled open gradually, a very familiar scent tingling his throat. Groaning, he sat up, surprised to see a couch. Still reeling with fatigue, he pulled himself off the couch, heading to the bathroom.

With a grunt, he smacked into a wall.

"Booth?"

_Bones?_ _Bones._ "Ugh," he called back, almost unsure. He shook his head in a vague attempt to get rid of the sleepiness.

"Coffee?"

_Coffee_, Booth repeated inwardly. Even the word made his mouth water and his exhaustion to waver slightly. He shuffled toward the sound, fleetingly wondering where he'd put his shoes. The smell got stronger and he opened his eyes properly.

Brennan stood at the bench, mixing two mugs of coffee. She looked up, smiling at him quietly.

"Time?" he asked suddenly, reaching eagerly for the mug she offered him.

"Just after six," she replied, totally unfazed by the early hour. He groaned. "Wuss." He grinned into his coffee as she continued speaking. "I wanted to get an early start, have those excavation teams in as early as possible in as many sites as possible.

Booth wanted to argue, but he just nodded in silent ambiguity, knowing exactly why she had done what she had. Brennan seemed to suddenly realize something.

"Do you want to go home first? You probably should," she decided after looking him up and down a few times. Booth did the same.

Angela would have a field day if he showed up to work like that. He heaved a huge sigh. "Yeah, probably should," he agreed. He smiled unexpectedly. "But I _really_ want to finish this coffee first."

* * *

By that evening, Brennan had visited every site. Booth had managed to twist the arms of more than a few excavation teams to get them where Brennan wanted him, pissing off about as many.

Booth smiled weakly as Brennan came to sit next to him in the back of one of the big Jeffersonian vans. For a few seconds he continued to observe the goings on in the park. It seemed horribly wrong to be digging up a child's bones in a playground. But they were.

He turned to Brennan then leaned against the wall of the van, pulling one of his legs into the van to rest his elbow on his knee.

Brennan continued to stare out across the grass. It was almost dark, the first hints of twilight glinting off the metal play equipment.

"Every spot on that map," she said quietly. Booth nodded, understanding easily. "They're moving all the remains to the Jeffersonian by seven o'clock, so I'll meet them there." Booth nodded again, formulating his own plan of action.

"I spoke to Gus again: same thing. The kid doesn't know anything more. I've talked to a few of his old social workers, foster parents… there's nothing we didn't already know." There was silence for a few seconds. "Same guy?"

Brennan nodded. "I can't be sure yet, but from what I've seen, yes. All the victims are fully clothed, so it's hard to tell. I want Hodgins to have all the evidence possible," she explained.

"How old?"

"The kids or the murders?" she asked. A hint of sadness remained in her very deliberate voice. "I'll have to get back to the Jeffersonian to be certain. But most appear to be no older than eight. At the moment, it's impossible to tell time of death." She stood up, her last statement seeming to have motivated her.

"Call me when you have something," Booth said simply before walking to his car.

Brennan pulled out her phone and dialed Hodgins. He picked up on the first ring, apparently waiting for her call. "Doctor B.!" he started excitedly.

"You have something?" she asked, recognizing the tone.

"Well, I have a lack of something."

She waited silently.

"There is no trace evidence at all on this kid's blood-sucker paraphernalia. I do have a theory, though-"

"Is it imperative to the investigation, Hodgins?" she asked pointedly.

"So why did you call me?" he asked, sounding almost guilty. Brennan smiled.

"I've got all of these remains coming into the lab. Four in total. I just wanted to warn you so you could, uh… get Angela out of the lab. I don't know if she'll be able to handle this," she said, her voice soft. Hodgins nodded pointlessly and it occurred to him, not for the first time, how much Brennan really did notice; how much she really did care. Brennan was just more a person of action than of words.

"I'll try my best, Doctor Brennan," he promised. "It's harder on her than the rest of us." Brennan agreed quietly before hanging up.

So Gus was officially innocent. That wasn't helpful.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Spoilers:** Whatever.

**Disclaimer:** Meh. I want sleep. Oh, apologies if this chapter is a little jumpy. It kind of had to be, though. Should make _some_ kind of sense...

**Author's Note:** The triangles thing came from a statewide Engineering competition. One of the groups from our school had to build a bridge, and all the other schools used triangles upon triangles. Our school's had none, so they wrote what Hodgins says on their bridge. (The bridge kicked ass, too). We got through to the next round and our new bridge said the same thing. And it kicked butt again.

* * *

Booth's pen tapped impatiently, reminding Brennan semiconsciously of the very beginning of the case. This time, though, she didn't say anything. It was almost external relief of her _own_ nervous tension. Her eyes remained trained on the femur in front of her, before moving systematically to the pelvis.

Hodgins stood beside her, not able to help, but not quite having the heart to leave. Brennan sighed finally.

"There is nothing more these bones have to tell us than the past four," she concluded weakly. She looked at Hodgins. "Maybe Cam will have something?"

Neither Booth nor Hodgins missed the hopeful tone in her voice. "Maybe. I'll go check," Hodgins agreed.

Cam was in her pathology lab, taking a final squint at the most intact remains they'd found yet. She looked up briefly to acknowledge Hodgins' presence.

"Angela go home?" she asked casually. Hodgins nodded and folded his arms.

"Yeah. Brennan and I thought it'd be best." He paused for a second. "Ange wasn't so adverse to it, either." Cam nodded before finally looking up.

"I think I've got all I can from these remains. Mostly, I just have a layer of dermis, a small amount of muscle tissue and some mushed internal organs. There are no anomalies, really. We can get a bit more, maybe, but it doesn't look likely."

Cam shrugged and crossed her arms, mirroring Hodgins' stance. Hodgins' brow furrowed and he looked pointedly at the small body on the steel table. "May I?" he asked politely. Cam gestured eloquently to the table.

"If you can get anything I can't, feel free. All I found were old scars, a few broken bones… all consistent with earlier findings. Though, I can say that it seems almost impossible that any kind of sexual assault took place." There was relief on both their faces when she said that. They had excluded it based on the pathology of the killer, but it had never been positive.

"So go for it," Cam concluded. Hodgins smiled in response and took a step closer. Cam kept talking. "This poor kid. He was no older than six. I can't imagine how Brennan's dealing with this… I only had to examine _one_-"

"Brennan sees the bones, Doctor Saroyan. She sees them after you've cleaned them; she doesn't see their faces like you have to," Hodgins lied. Cam looked at him skeptically.

"Thanks for trying, Hodge-Podge, but we both know that's a lie." She looked at him thankfully and Hodgins nodded in agreement.

"It was worth a try. I think Brennan copes because she has Booth," he admitted. Cam looked at him amusedly. He shrugged.

"Angela been brainwashing you at night, or something?" she asked. Hodgins smiled.

"If only…"

Cam took her gloves off, totally baffled by his last comment. Hodgins bent back over the corpse while Cam ridded herself of her autopsy apron. "Cam…" he called quietly.

Cam's interest was peaked instantly. "What?" she asked eagerly. Hodgins grinned.

"I think I just found our next lead."

* * *

After Hodgins left, Brennan collapsed onto the chair next to Booth, wishing that they had something other than stools on the lab platform.

"These kids will be hard to ID without Angela…" Brennan stated. Booth nodded. The pen-tapping had since stopped, dulled by the 'nothing more' that Brennan had found. He scrubbed his hands over his face in a feeble attempt to wake himself up.

Brennan just yawned. She had been working through each set of remains systematically for the entire day and the vast majority of the night. She had been in the lab for a good fifteen hours, and most of it on her feet.

Booth had spent half the day following up bogus lead after bogus lead that had all ended him firmly in the middle of more nothing, and the other half tapping impatiently. Hodgins had been devoid of anything of his own to do, and so had stood with Booth on the platform pointlessly and watched Brennan work for over five hours.

The only thing that they had gleaned was that every single one of the kids was aged between five and eight and had a history of physical abuse. Brennan had shut off as she recited her findings after each examination.

"African American male, aged six to eight years old. Broke his clavicle about ten months before time of death; broke it again two months after that. Fully healed skull fracture: from infancy while the skull was still forming. Both his arms were broken, only one of them was set to heal."

"Caucasian female aged five to six years. The victim suffered multiple rib fractures, varying in severity. A well healed fracture of the wrist and one of the left ulna. This victim, unlike the others, had_ all_ these injuries attended to medically. The fractures were all set properly."

"African American female aged six to eight years. Fissure lines on the right maxilla indicate a healed fracture from one year ago, supported by three missing molars on the left side, though they may have been naturally lost. Children this young don't usually lose their molars, though."

Each time, Booth had cringed, his mind running through all the different ways he could punish these kids' parents. Each time, Booth had noticed Brennan's unwavering voice which was edged with steel. He figured that to most people, she would just sound deliberate, precise, detached. But Booth could feel the anger in her voice. He was sure Hodgins had noticed it, too.

"What now?" Both asked. Brennan was surprised at his expression when she looked up. He looked defeated. It wasn't a rhetorical question, he really wanted an answer. He, for once, was at a loss.

"I-"

"Doctor B!"

Both heads snapped up at the sound of Hodgins excited voice wailing across the lab. Brennan was glad that there was no one else there; someone probably would have called a bomb squad at that voice.

"I've got something!" Hodgins declared, holding up a swab. Cam followed behind, looking almost as beat as Brennan. She hadn't been on her feet quite so much, but she had waited in the lab until the body had come in. She had finished the paperwork to about four of her previous cases.

"What did you find?" Brennan demanded. Hodgins grinned.

"I'm not sure, but I think the kids were drugged," he said excitedly, moving quickly to the mass spectrometer. "I smelled the boy's mouth, and it smelled faintly of chemicals."

"Chloroform?" Booth offered. Hodgins shook his head rapidly.

"No, it's something else. I'm not sure, but it smelled lemony," he said, suddenly a little baffled.

"He couldn't have just eaten a lemon, or something?" Booth asked cynically. Hodgins rolled his eyes.

"No," Hodgins stated easily. Booth's face posed the question. "If he _ate_ a lemon, the sample wouldn't be in his trachea, it would be in his esophagus," Hodgins pointed out somewhat impatiently.

"It would only be in his trachea if he choked on it," Brennan translated pointlessly. Booth rolled his eyes at her over-helping. Still, he couldn't help the small smile that flicked at the corners of his mouth.

As the waited for the machine to do its magic, the previous excitement simmered down into anxiety. Suddenly, Brennan remembered something.

"Oh!" she exclaimed before almost-running to the other side of the lab. Three sets of totally confused eyes watched her before one decided to follow her.

"Bones!" he called. She didn't turn.

"Angela's office!" was all she said. Booth sighed and followed her, assuming she'd respond soon enough.

By the time he got there, she was already sitting at Angela's computer, typing furiously. As he stood behind her, she smiled and hit 'print'. Booth put a hand on her shoulder in praise.

"Maybe we're not at a dead end," he said hopefully.

* * *

Angela paced around the huge room impatiently. She should be at the lab. They probably all thought she was at home, sleeping. But there was no chance of her sleeping while this case was still going. The first night of it, she had nearly hyperventilated. Hodgins and Brennan had meant well, sending her home.

And, to her shame, she hadn't resisted. She was being weak; something she had promised not to do when she had decided to keep working at the Jeffersonian. Brennan had been right when she had said that Angela's job was as important as her own. And Angela had known that. It was _believing_ it that had been the hard part.

If she believed it, then she would have no choice but to continue. And, after her relationship with Hodgins had started, it hadn't been quite so hard.

She stopped pacing suddenly and looked around for her shoes. She had more important things to be doing.

* * *

Hodgins' fingers drummed on the desk as he stared at the mass spectrometer, willing it to hurry up. Cam leaned on the desk, crossing her ankles and handing him a cup of coffee.

"No one'd made a pot since the last shift ended," she said as an excuse for having been gone so long. In truth, it had probably only been ten minutes. In the silent, anxious lab, everything seemed to take half an hour longer than it really did. Hodgins smiled in thanks, then went back to drumming his fingers.

Cam looked at him knowingly. "Worried about Angela?" she asked. Impatience was not normally something Hodgins exhibited. Hodgins nodded.

"A little. I'm worried we did the wrong thing by sending her home. She probably feels totally useless; pacing or something." He paused as if to consider his answer. "But we really need her here. We're getting nowhere, and Ange is the only person who would be of any use right now…"

Cam took a sip of her coffee before talking. "Yeah."

"Just as well I'm here, then."

Both heads jerked up to see Angela standing a few metres away, grinning. Hodgins smiled back and Cam smiled simply out of relief. They may be getting something after all.

Hodgins walked over to her and took her hand in his. Angela instantly looked a little more sure of herself. "Where are they?" she asked.

Cam spoke up. "They're still on the platform. You'll need to work through them one by one. It'll be too hard to work through them all at the same time." Angela opened her mouth in protest. "Logistically, I mean," Cam clarified quickly. She didn't want to remind Angela why she hadn't been at work for the past twelve hours.

"Okay, then, let's do it." As she said it, the knot in Angela's stomach twisted again.

* * *

"Cam! Hodgins!" Brennan called as she sped back through the lab, Booth closely at her heels.

She was surprised when Cam, Hodgins _and_ Angela came into view. "Oh," Brennan breathed. "Ange, hi." She looked bemused. Angela smiled warmly at her friends.

"Hey, guys. I thought you could use my help," she said, shrugging. Booth quickly caught on to the joking mood.

"Yeah, we were considering a subpoena. Lost without you, weren't we, Bones?" he asked, grinning as he nudged his partner. Angela rolled her eyes. Brennan looked at Booth and frowned.

"Well, yes, actually," she said seriously. "Except for the first bit." Cam, Angela and Hodgins smirked. Brennan spoke quietly now, only to Booth. "Can we actually do that?" Booth put a hand on her back and ushered her forward.

"Has that huge _thing_ over there got anything yet?" Booth asked. Hodgins looked up and frowned.

"If you mean the mass spectrometer, no. It takes time, Booth," he said condescendingly, like he was defending a friend. Booth's eyes widened subtly.

"What about the infield dirt? Weren't you finding out where that came from?" he asked, this time a little more patently. Hodgins sighed.

"That also takes a bit of time. And it isn't 'dirt'," he argued. Booth's hands went to his hips cockily.

"Actually, yes, it is. That's what it's called. 'Infield _dirt_'," he replied, smiling smugly. Hodgins almost twitched. Cam stood up.

"Okay, boys! Put the testosterone away," she cautioned. They both looked at her before relaxing a little, not realizing that they'd both physically tensed during the tiny argument.

"Don't you just hit a few buttons and it triangulates some stuff?" Booth asked somewhat imprecisely. Hodgins, instead of getting offended, grinned as the computer next to him suddenly beeped knowingly. He clicked twice, hit three keys, and a picture appeared on the screen.

He looked at Booth smugly. "Triangles are overrated."

* * *

Three hours later, the five of them sat around the table on the upper floor of the lab, exhausted. A good twenty hours, fifteen of which had been totally fruitless.

Now, each team member had something in front of them; an army of manila folders. Cam looked at each tired face before beginning. Brennan and Booth sat on one side of the table, Angela and Hodgins on the other. She sat, habitually, at the head of the table.

"Doctor Brennan, why don't you start? There's no point in being formal right now." She sighed and fought the urge to rest her head on the table in front of her. They were all running purely on caffeine. Brennan handed out copies of her reports as she spoke. Only Cam Hodgins bothered opening it.

"Besides same manner of death, I found evidence of severe trauma to all five victims. Each had had numerous broken bones, some of them had been set, but only one of the victims had had all of them set properly. None of the injuries appeared to be more than one year old."

"Except the victim I autopsied," Cam continued. "The victim's injuries were not all fully healed. There was a fracture of the left ulna which had only begun to heal at time of death. This puts the time of injury three weeks prior to time of death, which was, roughly, five months ago."

"Just before the time Gus found that map," Booth pointed out. Cam nodded.

"It's hard to be certain with that much decomposition. Temperature, humidity… it all makes it too hard to pinpoint exactly." Cam handed each person a copy of the file in front of her. "The only things I found that Brennan couldn't were that there were no signs of sexual assault, and one other thing Hodgins found."

Hodgins took his cue smoothly and distributed his set of folders. "Doctor B. is always telling us to smell the victim's mouth; especially if there is no sign of a struggle. Now Cam didn't bother because the victim would have been so small on comparison to an attacker that had to be so strong. But I figured I would, anyway.

"And I found something: a chemical to be more specific. A compound of mostly carbon tetrachloride. It was a mix of that, synthetic lemon scent and synthetic orange dye. It's an industrial cleaning fluid which is technically now controlled by the Montreal Protocol."

Booth raised an eyebrow. "Which means…?" he asked.

"Which means: whoever was using this chemical has slipped pretty much under the radar. It isn't supposed to be used anymore at such high percentages because it's considered a green house gas. Whatever _that_ is-"

"Hodgins," Cam warned.

"Right. Anyway. It most likely has an industrial origin," he finished. "Also, the 'dirt'," -he aimed this at Booth- "is from a baseball field just outside of Georgetown. I found five possible places that might use carbon tetrachloride as a cleaning agent: Auto-Shop on 39th, Georgetown Group Home, McDonough Gymnasium, Saint Albans School and the Tunlaw Road Apartments."

"So we have six victims: different ages, different sexes, different races, but same manner of death," Booth concluded. "But I think I, or, rather, Bones and Angela, found the common link. That, with what Hodgins has just told us... I know where we need to look," Booth decreed proudly. Angela looked up, confused as to what exactly had been her finding.

Booth smiled and held up his respective folder, pushing the others into the middle of the table so everyone could take a copy. "All six kids were foster kids."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Spoilers:** Serieusement? Bon chance!

**Disclaimer:** Not really. The phrase "So Sue Me" seems to have become rather a popular one… Last chapter, though…

**Author's Note: **Um, I thank school assemblies for this chapter. Without you in your grossly copious amounts, I never would have had the time to finish/plot this chapter. And this is the end. Thank you to everyone who read _Absentis Liberi_, and I hope so, so much that you all enjoyed is!

* * *

"Leslie Ann Donnelly: Female; African American; seven years old at time of death. She was put in the foster system at age five. Violent, alcoholic father. Reported missing two years and seven months ago.

"Alejandro Gonzales: Male; Hispanic; six years old at time of death. In foster care since… 2006; abusive grand-father. No parents. Reported missing eighteen months ago.

"Adelaide Nielsen: Female; Caucasian; five years old at time of death. Placed in foster care at age four; abusive crack-head mother. Reported missing two years ago.

"Christian Parfitt: Male; Caucasian; seven years old at time of death. Foster care since age four. Abusive father. Most recent victim, reported missing five months ago.

"Tobias Patmore: Male, African American; eight years old at time of death. Been a foster child since 2006. Abused by his step-father. Reported missing thirteen months ago.

"Edie Josephine Pulford: Female; Caucasian; six years old at time of death. Foster care since age five. Violent father, neglectful mother. Reported missing ten months ago."

The room was silent. Booth placed the last folder on the top of the small pile in front of him and sat down, seemingly exhausted from speaking. He cast a glance around the room.

Angela's jaw was clenched; her muscles tensed. Hodgins grasped her hand as if she would simply crumble if he let go. Judging by the whiteness of her knuckles, Booth wouldn't have put it to the test.

Cam looked defeated, slumped in her chair, staring at the far wall.

Brennan was the only one who seemed to be conscious. She looked up from the opposite end of the table and they locked eyes. With no words, Brennan nodded at him. Sucking in a deep breath, Booth continued. As he did, two of the other three heads turned to him.

"None of the kids had the same foster parents, except Tobias Patmore and Adelaide Nielsen who were placed in the same home but at different times. Bones and I will go talk to the parents today; see if they remember anything." He looked at Brennan, and she nodded. Booth continued.

"All six of these kids were reported missing by their group homes. Or group _home_," he corrected_._ The other head turned to him now, curious.

"They were all at the same group home?" Cam asked. Booth nodded.

"Yep. Well, they were at their time of disappearance," he told them all. Hodgins perked up, his expression a little less hopeless than before.

"Georgetown Group Home," he said distantly, mostly to himself. Booth nodded then continued.

"So we don't have a serial killer who kills _any_ foster kid. This exonerates foster parents, and hugely narrows the possibility of a member of the public." Booth shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He wasn't used to giving this kind of lecture to a room full of Squints. Agents, he could handle, but it was usually just he and Brennan.

The three other faces put him off a little: they reminded him of just how little evidence they had. It was never a good sign when the Squint Squad was out of relevant work.

* * *

"Mr Simmons?"

A tired-looking middle aged man looked up from the child he was talking to. The little boy was covered in what looked like ketchup.

"Yes, that's me," the man said, smiling kindly. "What can I do for you? Are you from Social Services?" he asked, a little suspicious after noticing the way they were dressed.

Brennan shook her head. "No, sir, my name is Doctor Temperance Brennan and this is Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI," she recited automatically. The man now looked relieved. That wasn't a common reaction.

"Ah. Sorry, we're expecting a house call some time this week," Mr Simmons explained. He turned back to the little boy, who was eyeing Booth and Brennan curiously. "Run back inside, Marty. I think Mrs Simmons needs some help washing your clothes," he told the boy with a smile. The little boy grinned guiltily and ran inside. Mr Simmons stood up.

"Seven kids and a ketchup bottle…" he said, shaking his head. Booth and Brennan smiled.

"We've got a few questions to ask you, Mr Simmons," Booth began. The man nodded, looked toward the house, seemed to change his mind, and led them around to the back of the house. He motioned to a few chairs around a plastic garden table. Booth and Brennan sat obligingly.

"Your house is very nice for a foster home," Brennan said unceremoniously as they sat down. The man chuckled.

"Isn't it? My wife and I, when we were younger, invested in stocks. We sold them at just the right time, and came out very much on top," he said, grinning. Booth smiled, then pulled out two photos from his pocket. He handed them to Mr Simmons.

"We're here to ask you about these two children: Tobias Patmore and-"

"Adelaide Nielsen," the man interrupted. Booth leaned closer, intrigued.

"So you remember them?" he asked eagerly. The man nodded.

"Oh yes. We had Tobias in 2006 and little Addie in 2005. They were… damaged," he said sadly.

Brennan cocked her head. "How so?"

The man sucked in a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. "I'm assuming by you being here that you know their histories. They were just… They wouldn't play with the other kids, wouldn't even talk to them. The most I ever got from either of them was when Tobias screamed form a nightmare one night. I never heard another word from either of them."

Booth risked a glance at Brennan; her face was outwardly calm, but he could see that she was forcing it to be. Knowing it could, and would have to, wait until later; he turned back to Mr Simmons, only to be interrupted by a woman's voice. Booth and Brennan spun in their seats.

The woman stopped when she saw the two strangers sitting in her garden.

"Hello," she said carefully. "I'm Laurie Simmons." She held out a hand to Booth, then to Brennan, before standing behind her husband, one hand on his shoulder. The man grinned up at his wife.

"This is Agent Booth and Doctor Brennan. They're with the FBI," he told her matter-of-factly. Booth didn't think he'd seen anyone less intimidated by his occupation. Except, perhaps, the woman sitting next to him.

"Oh?" she mumbled, her curiosity deepening the lines on her face. Her husband, pre-empting the question, handed her the photos. She heaved a sigh, reminding Booth of a sadly regretful grandmother.

"Tobias and Adelaide," she said to herself. She looked up at Booth and Brennan worriedly. "What's happened?" she asked breathlessly. For all his calm, her husband had forgotten to clear that detail. Booth swallowed, hoping that his news would not bring Laurie Simmons to tears.

"They're dead. They were both murdered: Tobias in 2007 and Adelaide in 2006," Booth told them quietly. Mrs Simmons grip on her husband's shoulder tightened impossibly then went limp as she sunk heavily into the chair next to him.

"Oh… oh, no," she breathed. Booth looked at Brennan guiltily; he hated delivering news. She sighed in silent understanding.

"I'm sorry, but we needed to ask you about them. I don't mean to put this upon you unnecessarily, but, in all honesty, anything you could give us would help a lot," Booth urged quietly. He was almost pleading. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like there was much to be given.

Mr Simmons shook his head. "I'm sorry, Agent Booth, I don't think there's anything else we can help you with. They were both just so…" He paused, finding the words in his head. "It was like there was a wall between them and the real world."

* * *

Booth's head hit the headrest as he closed his eyes briefly. The interview had helped them about as much as a lone raindrop in a desert.

Brennan reached over and shook his shoulder lightly. "We should probably get going," she said quietly. Booth nodded, but didn't start the car. She regarded him curiously. "What?"

"Are you okay?" he asked seriously. Brennan's expression remained curious.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

He groaned. She was really going to make him say it. "Because, Bones. Foster kids being murdered-"

"Don't go there, Booth," she interrupted, a warning look on her face. Booth opened his mouth in protest. "No. Talking about my past and whatever issues I have or don't have will not help us solve this case."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, each trying to get the other to back down. When neither did, Booth turned around and started the car.

"Just… If you want to talk…" Booth offered awkwardly. To his surprise, Brennan didn't protest, only nodded silently. A little more at ease, Booth motioned to the back seat. Brennan reached back and grabbed a manila folder, flipping it open naturally. As her eyes scanned, Booth spoke. "We're going to Georgetown Group Home."

* * *

Booth fidgeted in the uncomfortable seat; the perfect opposite of Brennan, who sat completely still. If he didn't know better, he would have assumed she was catatonic. The eyes of the woman they were speaking to flickered to Brennan then back to Booth, as if making sure Brennan was really there.

"So you have been the administrator of this home for…?" Booth smiled invitingly.

"Twelve years and three months, but who's counting?" she joked acerbically. Booth laughed obligingly.

"How much interaction do you have with the kids, Ms Reynolds?" he asked curiously, still sharply aware of Brennan sitting next to him. She sighed.

"Not as much as I used to, I'm afraid. The social workers take care of most of the arrangements and goings-on outside of the home, and there is specific staff here for everything else: nurses to janitors." She shrugged as if to prove her point.

"Mostly, I just make sure it all runs smoothly and the paperwork gets filed." She smiled self-mockingly, and Booth smiled, again deliberately.

"Could we get a copy of your staff list?" Booth asked smoothly. It seemed impossible that anyone could refuse. Ms Reynolds, however, managed.

"I'll first need to know why you're here, Agent Booth," she said as if she'd just realized this wasn't a casual chat with the FBI.

Booth motioned for Brennan to begin. Brennan handed Ms Reynolds the folder as if she had been talking to her all along. "We are investigation the murders of six children."

The administrator stopped and her eyes widened. "One of them was from here?" she asked incredulously. Brennan shook her head.

"No, Ms Reynolds, all six of them were."

The woman's face registered only shock as she opened the folder in her hands and spread out the pictures on her desk. Her expression melted gradually from shock to distanced pity. "You think one of my staff did this?" she asked finally.

"We're looking into it," Booth told her. She nodded and began rifling through the top drawer of her desk, extracting a CD. She held it out to Booth.

"It can't have been anyone here, Agent Booth," she told him sternly. Booth nodded subtly.

"Do you recognize any of these kids? Can you tell us anything about them that may not be in their records?" he asked, playing with the CD absentmindedly. She shook her head and smiled weakly.

"No, sorry. There are so many kids that come through here; some for less than a month…" She smiled apologetically and gathered the photos back into the folder.

"You don't remember reporting them missing?" Brennan asked suddenly, her resentment barely masked. Booth shot her a warning look. Ms Reynolds spoke very deliberately.

"No, Doctor Brennan." Her voice softened ever so slightly as she continued. "So many kids go missing from group homes every year… I… It's sad, but that's just what happens. Some of these kids are so confused, so damaged, that no amount of persuasion can keep them in one place for more than a few days." She shrugged again.

To Booth's surprise, Brennan remained silent; as if genuinely considering the answer she had been given.

As they left the office, Booth glanced at Brennan, concerned. "You're quiet today, Bones. It's kinda creepy," he added, trying to elicit some kind of reaction.

"I'm just thinking," she said absent-mindedly, her eyes suddenly focused on something in the opposite direction. Booth followed her line of sight and Brennan sniffed deliberately. A dreary-looking man regarded them blankly, the mop in his hands never stopping. Booth and Brennan locked eyes before breaking into a jog.

* * *

A manila folder hit the table with a _thwack_. Booth flipped it open revealing photographs of six children, and a chemical analysis sheet. He glared.

"Raymond David Rawlings. Fifty-five years of age; been working as a janitor at Georgetown Group Home for seven of those." He looked up meaningfully at the man in front of him. The man's face remained blank. So far, Booth hadn't figured out whether Rawlings incredibly intelligent or just really stupid.

"Do you know what this is?" Booth asked sternly. The man's eyes flicked briefly a piece of paper covered in multicoloured lines. The man's eyes moved back to a spot on his pant leg. He picked at it with an impeccably clean fingernail. Booth's voice remained quiet, but it could have cut rock.

"This is a chemical analysis of the cleaner you use, compared to a chemical analysis of a chemical found on the body of a murdered child. A little boy named Christian Parfitt," Booth prompted, waiting for a reaction. He got one. The man's eyes snapped to his. Booth was surprised to see no fear in them, only anguish. Booth glanced at Brennan, who sat next to him, again perfectly silent.

He shoved the concern into the back of his mind; it could be dealt with later.

"Did you kill Christian Parfitt?" Booth asked. There was no point in wasting time, and the man hadn't asked for a lawyer. The man's eyes moved from Booth's and floated down to the table to rest on one of the photos. He picked it up gently and stroked the innocent face silently.

"Yes," he said calmly, his voice barely above a whisper. Booth's face registered only shock for a few seconds before he regained his composure. Next to him, his partner frowned.

"Did you kill the others, too?" she asked. The man's eyes flicked to her, then back to the table.

"Yes," he whispered again, putting the photo down and organising the rest in what appeared to be the order of their deaths. He looked entirely absorbed in his task until Booth's palm hit the table in front of him loudly. Raymond jumped.

"Why? Why did you do it?" Booth demanded. Brennan sat up straighter, ready to intervene if Booth went overboard. Judging by the bulging muscles in his arms, it wasn't unlikely.

"To help them," he said feebly, his eyes still scanning the faces on the table. Booth grabbed the man's face and turned it towards his own.

"_Help_ them? Killing them is not _helping _them!" Booth's breathing became slightly ragged and Brennan called his name softly. Booth's hand relaxed and left Raymond's face with five bright red splotches. Booth coughed and readjusted himself. "Why?" he asked, a little more calmly.

Raymond looked fleetingly from Booth to Brennan then back to the table. "They were already dead," he said finally. "Inside; they were dead." The man's eyes still showed nothing but pain and the beginnings of tears. Booth's temper hit a fuse again.

"No, Rawlings, they were _alive_. They were alive, and now they're dead because _you_ killed them," he said, seething. Raymond looked at Booth almost curiously for a second.

"They were the undead." As he said it, everything seemed to click into place for Booth and Brennan.

Oblivious to this, Raymond continued. "They had dead faces. They didn't speak, didn't move. They couldn't laugh: their souls were broken," he explained, his voice seeming to stretch thinly over the space between he and Booth. The man looked up pitifully.

"They would never have trusted again. Never have laughed. Never have _cried_."

Booth jaw clenched. "Did they cry when you killed them?" he asked acidly.

"No," he answered matter-of-factly. "They didn't feel any pain. I made sure-" his voice caught as he choked on tears. "I made sure they didn't hurt. They couldn't feel anything. I didn't add to their pain." He looked back at the faces of the kids, calmer now. He remembered every detail of every child. Booth's voice broke through Raymond's reverie.

"They were little kids!" he exclaimed, his voice finally cracking under the weight of his anger. Raymond's face contorted into a mask of pain and sorrow as he looked directly at Booth.

"They weren't kids. They never were kids."

* * *

Booth didn't flinch as his fist collided solidly with the wall. Brennan simply leaned against it and sighed. Booth didn't notice the small spatterings of red on his knuckles as he spoke.

"I just… how… _six little kids_, Bones…"

Brennan remained silent, but Booth didn't notice.

"Probably more," he sighed.

"I don't think so," Brennan said. Booth looked at her, confused. "Rawlings isn't a genius; he doesn't kill to prove anything; he's very forthcoming, really. He admitted to what he'd done as soon as you asked him. I don't see why he'd hide something from us."

She shrugged and looked at Booth for confirmation. Booth thought it over for a second. It was incredibly logical, and he was somewhat willing to believe it based entirely upon the way Brennan had said it. Or maybe it was that Brennan had said it.

He nodded, and then frowned, leaning against the wall with her. "I don't see why he killed those kids."

Brennan's voice was barely audible. "I do."

Shocked, Booth stared at her. He wasn't sure if he had actually heard her correctly. "What?" he asked, forcing his voice to be level. "This guy killed six little kids!"

"I know, Booth," she retorted, annoyed at his outburst. "I worked this case _with _you." She waited for Booth to calm down a little. "I've seen kids like that before."

"Staked?" he asked.

"No!" she rolled her eyes. "Kids that don't connect with anything. Don't play, don't talk, don't laugh. They just seem to exist, and it's likely all they'll ever do."

Booth studied her intently. She had the distant, distanced look she normally had when she spoke of her memories; especially those of foster care. Just as his studying began to morph into something completely different, Booth forced himself to speak.

"But there's always a chance that they'll survive."

"I'm not saying it warrants murder. I'm just saying that," she considered, "if I were a psychopath, it wouldn't be a far stretch." Booth's face went from surprised to confused to thoughtful, then suddenly he smiled. Brennan frowned at his grin.

"You know, Bones, I don't think it's a far stretch to you being a psychopath at all," he stated, shrugging and pushing off the wall simultaneously. Brennan followed angrily.

"What? _Booth_! That is _not_ what I said!" she called desperately. Booth turned to her and grinned, slinging an arm over her shoulders.

"Sure, Bones. Deny it now," he teased.

"I didn't-"

"Now you're grumpy again," he pointed out.

She bristled before seeing Booth's amused grin. "You were making fun of me," she said resolutely, nodding slightly. Shaking his head, Booth bent to kiss her temple, pulling her closer.

"Yeah, Bones, I was."

Thank you all!

Love,

Giorgia


End file.
